My New Year’s Eve was marginal at best. I worked the night before and stayed up way too late and felt like dried out, warmed over oatmeal on the 31st. I wanted to stay home and watch movies. Sam never wants to stay home and watch movies because he’s 12 years old and has the attention span of a fruitfly. Happily, a friend of ours invited us to be his guests at a group dinner hosted by a minor celebrity chef, at a restaurant on the Upper West Side.
It turned out to be Italian food cooked and served by Russians, so it was strange from the get. Now I like Russian people. They’re full of life and fun at a party. They know how to drink, the men are usually boisterous and most of the women dress slutty and completely inappropriately for winter weather, but with expensive shoes and bags. I find that fascinating. I have one Russian friend who makes me laugh so hard my face hurts after seeing him. This is him running around Patricia Field, where we both used to work:
He took this video of my coworkers and I at Patricia Field a few years back, with this description:
“The ladies of Patricia Field gathered to discuss something they don’t get to talk about with their gay colleagues – their vaginas.”
He’s the voice you hear from behind the camera.
BUT, and there’s always a big but, Dottie, the enthusiasm that makes Russians wonderful is the same enthusiasm that can make them problematic, especially in large groups. You can get steamrolled.
I sat at our table, hungover as shit, clutching a martini for dear life and scrambling for a bit of whatever was being served not quite plentifully enough. A platter would hit the table and we’d all dive at it with our forks. Sadly, I never even got near the baked clams. The room was full of helium balloons with long strings that dangled in our faces, caught in our hair, dropped into our food. The owner of the restaurant sat behind me with his chair pushed way out so the waiters had no choice but to bang into my chair over and over again as they raced back and forth. One of his guests fell completely out of his seat, cursed in front of a little girl up past her bedtime, then wobbled around the room unsteadily, still drinking mind you, while the rest of his crew congregated directly behind me to rub their asses on my head, hit my head with their handbags, drip their drinks in my lap, and cheerfully, unwittingly poke at the angry bear that is me. I wanted to set them all on fire.
I sent Sam to the bar for another martini instead. I was a guest of someone generously paying my tab so I sat quietly and drank my free booze like a goddamn lady. The girl on my left shouted endlessly about Billy Idol past me to Sam on my right, hoping to impress him with her rock and roll expertise. I think she ended up making out with him (Billy) at the end of the story but I was too glazed over to pay proper attention. Sam brought up Generation X and she looked confused, having no idea who that was despite claiming to be a huge fan. He knew she was in trouble, the yelling was causing me to sit up taller and taller, which I do when annoyed, so he tried to hustle her through the story quickly.
I was so tired that I left my phone on the table when we exited a few hours later. We were lucky enough to get a sort of cab. It was yellow at least and had a meter, but the meter sat on the front passenger seat. For those of you outside of New York City, NYE is a transportation nightmare here, in which you stand endlessly on corners with your hand in the air and walk many painful blocks in high heels.
A few blocks away I realized I’d left my phone. We had the cab driver turn around and in a quick 20 minutes (yay, NYE traffic) were back at the restaurant, only to discover that the phone had been “claimed”. Ugh.
The rest of the night was uneventful. We had a nightcap with friends at a bar near my place and I left Sam “the night ain’t done til you’re broke and bleeding” Hariss to go home to do a search for the phone on my computer.
I’ll spare the boring details, but eventually and with some diligent computer sleuthing the next morning, I learned that the phone had been taken by the semi-celebrity chef, who thought it belonged to one of his friends, and transported to way the eff out in Brooklyn. I was irritated. But I took a deep breath, harassed him for the address, got dressed and spent the entire afternoon of January 1 traveling out to him and back.
Inauspicious beginnings, but I remain optimistic.
Yesterday I had brunch with a couple girlfriends in one of their apartments. Their names must be shrouded in secrecy due to the nature of our conversation; so I’ll call them Laverne and Shirley to keep it uncomplicated. It was lovely to sit around with our shoes off and gossip privately, and it felt like the real celebration for the new year. aaaaaaaa
Us, being us, we bought too much champagne and spent hours “finishing” it. The topic turned to dick pics, because I had called someone out at the NYE dinner for sending said pics to a co-worker/friend. He has a unique name, and upon being introduced I got a ping on the mental rolodex and realized that although this was our first meeting, I had met parts of him months before via the magic mashup of sexting and male ego.
Me + booze = no filter, so I had called him on it. He seemed mortified and I felt a little bit bad about mentioning it. But not too terribly bad because I never wanted to see his junk in the first place. It had been imposed upon me by a confused friend most obviously in need of guidance. I don’t understand the modern phenomenon of sending photos of one’s penis to a woman almost immediately upon considering dating her. It’s a deal-breaker for me. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but it seems either narcissistic or gay to me. Gay men can send dick pics to each other all day long and I full support it. Hetero men to women, not so much.
Nope.
She shrieked. “This is terrible! It’s so unfair! I thought every woman had to do this. I’ve been duped!!”
Yep.
Shirley was upset. I decided to take a quick text poll among all my female friends to get a broader cross-section and thought you might find some of the answers entertaining. The percentages I was throwing out are totally off, I just like to make up poll numbers when I’m drunk.
Subject A:
Subject C. She’s led a colorful life:
MISS ANTHROPE'S HOUSE OF HIGH DRAMA 